This post is geared mostly to men, but women might find it insightful as well.  Over the years, I’ve noticed five distinct and reoccurring postures at the urinals at work and in public restrooms.  So I bring you:

Your Urinal Posture And What It Says About You:

1. The “Single Hand On Hip” Pose:  You’re a “go-getter” but very impatient. The mere act of emptying your bladder is a major disruption in your busy day.  You stare down, as if to say, “Common! Let’s move this along!” You’ve considered having a catheter installed.  You’re probably prone to road rage incidents.
2. The “Double Hand On Hips” Pose (The Super Hero Pose): You’re extremely self confident in your ability to hit a target using no hands.  You enjoy chatting with the fellow at the neighboring urinal about last night’s sporting events or a funny thing you saw on the interweb.  You can see he’s uncomfortable but you don’t care.
3. The “Two Hands Behind The Head” Pose (often staring at the ceiling):  You’re also extremely self confident.  To a fault.  You’re confidence is based not on your ability to hit your target using no hands, but on the fact that you have a change of pants in your desk drawer.  You’re prone to fits of maniacal laughter.  You may be a serial killer.
4. The “Forehead On The Wall” Pose (sometimes accompanied by a fist pounding on the wall just above your head):  You’re having (or are on the verge of) a mental breakdown.  You just can’t take it anymore.  You know that the relief of peeing will be the highlight of your day.  You hope no one hears you softly sobbing.  We do.
5. The Long Shot:  You stand two feet back from the urinal and give it your best shot.  You’re not as good as you think you are.  You’ve been heard making comments like, “That’s what janitors get paid for.”  No one likes you.

***Please note that these are examples which deviate from the “Standard Pose” which comprise the majority of men.  (Also note that a majority is simply more than 50%)

Ten golden e-tickets.  That was the reward offered by Founders Brewing Company to winners of their #BringMetoBlackParty contest where loyal fans were asked to write brief essays about how Founders has impacted their lives.  My golden ticket arrived via email on an idle Sunday night, just a few short weeks ago.  It was what I’d been pining for, but never expected.  My essay had been selected out of a pool of over 2,000 entries as one of ten winners.  The Prize? To attend the prestigious Founders Black Party.  And to top it off, Founders offered to fly in my friend about whom I had written the essay.  When I called him, he screamed.  Then I told him why I was calling.  He screamed again.

A mysterious festival, Black Party is an annual celebration of creators Dave Engbers’ and Mike Stevens’ return from the wilderness.   Years earlier, they had ventured deep into the dark heart of a Michigan forest; a quest to find The Lost City Of Beer and the magical hops said to grow there.  A year later, local papers would report that the two Founders had returned and the Lost City of Beer had remained just that: lost.

But the two founders had not returned empty handed, and a short time later a Dirty Bastard was born.  The Lost City of Beer had eluded them, but there had been truth in the legends:  an ancient Beer-Master Order named the Hoppa Loppa.   The Hoppa Loppa’s are a curious people, whose sole unifying trait is their passion for perfect beer brewing (many of the males could also be characterized by their very large, rustic beards, used to attracts females, like the plumes on a peacock).  The founders quickly hired on this unique and unrivaled talent and brought them back to the Founders Brewery where together they set to work building an empire.

With Golden Tickets in hand, the lucky winners were invited to tour the brewery the day before Black Party.  It was a marvelous sight to behold.  Never before have I seen a facility so utterly spotless and meticulously maintained as the Founders Brewery.  Colossal shining vats created a dazzling labyrinth, while stainless steel pipes wound endlessly between them like the mechanical veins of some robot giant.  The fragrance of hops and malts twisted through the air, hitting the nostrils in delightful intervals.  The Hoppa Loppa’s were scattered everywhere.  Each man and woman serving a crucial and irreplaceable role in an incredibly intricate system.  They worked tirelessly, their focus never waning, yet each one smiled and greeted us warmly as we did our best to stay out of the way.

Their efficiency was showcased again as we approached the “barrel aging area” where droves of Hoppa Loppa’s filled miles of spent oak, whiskey barrels with gallons upon gallons of their delicious brews.  The scene was hypnotic; the Hoppa Loppa’s beating in time on the whiskey barrel corks, like the rhythmic rowing of  ancient Greek warships.  They sang tales of caution to us as they worked:

“Hopp-a Lopp-a, dop-et-dee-dop,

We drank a little, beer off the top.

If you were smart, you’d listen to me.

Don’t drink on this tour, there’s no break to pee.

 

Hopp-a Lopp-a, dop-et-dee dap,

Always look at, what is on tap.

If you get blitzed and cannot see clear,

You could fall down, in the river of beer.”

After our tour ended and we fished my friend, Micah, from the Imperial Stout River in which he nearly drowned, we were treated to a private tasting, the likes of which many will never get to experience.  Straight from the aging barrel, we tried beers (pre carbonated even) that hadn’t hit the market yet.  One beer we tried was still considered top secret and we were sworn to silence.  I shouldn’t even be telling you this, but it was a {*REDACTED*} beer, aged in {*REDACTED*} barrels and it was delicious.  So keep your eye out for it!  All tour-goers were also presented with a unique present; an alteration of Founders’ signature All Day IPA called “Everlasting IPA” which was served in a can that perpetually fills itself and never runs dry.  

Our day ended with dinner alongside the Founders, Dave and Mike.  There was an aura about these two men; a radiating joy.  Their faces etched with knowing smiles (Note: “Perma-smile” is a serious medical condition brought upon by doing something awesome with your life).  They didn’t need to find the Lost City of Beer; they had created their own.  And though they didn’t find magical hops, they did discover the secret to great beer; which is great people.  And when you can share that great beer with great friends, well, that’s something else entirely.   

Long story short, Mike and Dave tossed me the keys to the brewery, named me their heir apparent and sent me flying over Grand Rapids in a glass elevator.  Wait.  No. They hid my keys, told me apparently I’d had too many beers, and sent me flying across Grand Rapids in an Uber.  The night was a little fuzzy by that point.

A sincere thank you to all of the members of the Founders family for making last weekend one we’ll never forget.  I think I can safely speak for the group of #BringMetoBlackParty winners when I say that you’ve created twenty lifelong advocates for your brand.  Your passion for what you do is apparent not only in the beer you produce, but the community you inspire.  Thank you from the beer enthusiasts, the hopeless romantics, the police, the vikings, and the veterans.  Thank you for the beer that brings us together.  Brewed for us. (Cue Judd Nelson doing a fist pump and Simple Minds’ “Don’t You (Forget About Me)”)

As most of you know, I’ve been actively campaigning for a Presidential nomination.  You can imagine how busy this has kept me over the recent months and though I’ve seen the crazy headlines about my competition, I can honestly say I know very little about their political platforms.  Since most leading candidates are either extremely left or extremely right, their political platforms have been rendered meaningless, as we are doomed to another four years of democratic gridlock.  So you may be asking, “if not for their political platforms, how do we decide?” Good question.  Let me help.  I’ve compiled a list of rumors, hearsay, and assumptions I’ve heard, read, and dreamt about some of the frontrunners for you to base your voting on:

Donald Trump:  A relative unknown before the campaign began, this candidate has shot ahead of other GOP nominees with his “Make America Great Again” campaign.  I’ve been told he also did a brief stint in reality TV before this and has his name on a few buildings.  Trump uses sharp rhetoric, fear mongering and good old fashioned bullying to propel his popularity, not unlike the successful campaign strategies of 1930’s Germany.  When you go to vote, remember what Yoda said, “only the the Sith deals in absolutes.”

Hillary Clinton:  Claims to be a “woman of the people”, but I am skeptical.  Seems to me, she’s just another rich politician to whom people cannot relate.  I’ve heard she recently got in trouble for  having a private server at her home and she told that server a bunch of secret information.  Who has “servants” these days anyway!?!  How is a working-class shlub like myself supposed to relate to a candidate that has their own servants!?!  Also, the Clinton family already got to live in the White House.  Give somebody else a shot.

Jeb Bush:  Same deal.  Give another family a shot. Jeb just wants to be elected so he can find the old baseball cards he lost in the basement when his dad was President.  THAT’S THE ONLY REASON.

Bernie Sanders:  If you’re unsure who this is, he’s the candidate who looks like he’s two seconds from an aneurysm at all times.  He’s a cross between Lewis Black and Doc Brown from “Back To The Future”.  Politically he sounds like a modern day Robin Hood (watch out rich people), but I hear he’s got a tattoo of Mao Zedong on his right butt-cheek.  I think he could steal the Presidency if he just started running political ads on Netflix and printing his face on Taco Bell wrappers.

Ted Cruz:  I don’t know much about him other than he was really good in all the “Mission Impossible” movies. And who doesn’t like “Top Gun”?   I’ve heard he’s gotten pretty weird over the last decade though and that he kind of flipped out on the Oprah Winfrey Show.  He’s also really short and might be a Scientologist.  

Marco Rubio: I am 100% certain that Marco Rubio sported a “bowl cut” for the majority of his youth.  I will probably vote for Rubio, just because I feel like his name’s the easiest to chant.  RU-BI-O!  RU-BI-O!  RU-BI-O!  Not unlike Rufio from “Hook”.  (Interesting side note, Marco Rubio has an unusual fear of the fictitious character, Captain Hook and refuses to read “Peter Pan” to his children).  

Ben Carson:  The press has not done a very good job covering up his narcolepsy.  I don’t want a President that takes fifty “cat naps” every day.  Or drops off with his finger poised over the nuclear “dump-button”.

Carly Fiorina:  The only thing I know is that she is the former CEO of Hewlett-Packard.  I know this because she tells us EVERY FIVE SECONDS.

Chris Christie:  William Taft reincarnated.  No thank you.

Rand Paul:  You can vote for someone named “Rand” if you want, but not THIS guy!  Also, he was the original model for the “Chia Pet” head.

There you go.  I hope this information helps in your voting process and doesn’t confuse things too much.  Remember, if you don’t think any of them are suitable candidates, you can always write my name in.  

I’m Brett Allen and I approve this message.*
*Dictated but not read

It has become a yearly tradition in the United States for the President to grant clemency to one lucky turkey on Thanksgiving and spare him the unpleasantness of a thorough stuffing.  You may wonder what history lies behind this most unusual of Presidential traditions, and its origins are often disputed.  Some claim that the annual pardon started with Harry S. Truman and some say it was Kennedy, but I have discovered that its origin goes back much farther than that.  

In the mid 1870’s, a poultry dealer by the name of Horace Vose began sending prize turkeys to the White House as a means of gaining publicity for his farm.  Though the turkeys were meant for eating, then President Ulysses S. Grant was well known for his disdain for the taste of poultry and was often heard to say, “the only turkey I consume, is Wild Turkey Bourbon” (he later became the first national spokesman for the bourbon after his Presidency).  Fortunately for Vose, President Grant had gained quite an affinity for cock-fighting during his time as a young Army officer outside of Mexico City during the Mexican-American War.  While cock-fighting was considered illegal in the United States, Grant was pleased to discover that there were no laws governing “turkey-fighting” and established the first Presidential turkey-fighting ring in the basement of the White House.  Though fights were by invitation only, word of the new sport got out and turkey-fighting became a national phenomenon.  The “sport” was participated in by all social classes and many prize turkeys even earned national acclaim (similar to today’s professional boxers).  Poultry dealers such as Horace Vose began breeding their birds for fighting and trained them to be angrier and more aggressive.*  

In 1910, one particular turkey-fight received national attention, as President William Taft’s very own prize fighting turkey, Tom Tom The Terrible was pitted against The Butterball Brawler, the prize turkey of turkey-fighting newcomer Milton Butterball**.  The Tom Tom vs. Brawler fight was highly anticipated and the stakes were raised even higher when the two turkey owners agreed that the losing bird would be consumed at the annual White House Thanksgiving dinner.  The historic fight lasted fifteen agonizing rounds before the underdog, Brawler, won by knockout.  The gambling world was stunned and President Taft, devastated by Tom Tom’s defeat and drunk on power (and Wild Turkey Bourbon), ordered Milton Butterball to be incarcerated.  Unable to bear the thought of eating Tom Tom, Taft granted the bird a full Presidential Pardon and then consumed the champion Butterball Brawler, feathers and all.  

The President’s actions, though an act of passion, were no doubt a black-eye for the White House, whose staff went into full “damage control mode” the following day.  Milton Butterball was released from prison and as a means of avoiding legal repercussions, the White House granted him an exclusive contract for all of their poultry needs.  This, however, did not sit well with Horace Vose, but fortunately for everyone he accidently fell into a “fighting bird” pen on his farm three days later and was never seen again.***  The tradition of the President granting a pardon to one of Butterball’s turkey’s carries on to this day.

*In 1892, a shipment of Vose’s “fighting birds” were mistaken for “eating birds” and sent to a local Rhode Island grocery story.  The Granby Gazette described the scene at Hank’s Grocery as a “blood bath” and it took local Animal Control five days to round up all the vicious gobblers while the town remained on total lockdown.

**No relation to the national corporation… purely coincidental.  
***The “fighting bird” pen that Vose disappeared in was later used on the set of the movie Jurassic Park as the enclosure in which the Velociraptors were kept.  If you look closely in the movie, you can still see the “turkey scratches” and blood stains on the concrete walls.

Hello America,

How are you?  Don’t answer that.  I already know.  I overheard you sobbing into your breakfast taco this morning.  It’s understandable; recent polls* have shown that Donald Trump is now a full two points ahead of me in the race for the Presidency.  As you know, I don’t resort to mudslinging and even if I did, it wouldn’t matter because he wears his mud as a badge of honor 99% of the time anyway.  So instead, what I’m going to ask of you, America, is that you just don’t vote for Trump. There are plenty of other options.  I don’t care if you don’t vote for me.  In fact, I would be willing to bet that very few of you plan to (jerks).  Just don’t vote for Trump.  As an alternative, I have put together a list of other famous Donald’s that would make better President’s for your consideration:

Donald Sutherland:

Pros:  Soft spoken and articulate.  Donald Sutherland seems to be an “every-man’s gentlemen”.  He would bring a grandfatherly feel to the Presidency that could bring back America’s trust in politicians.

Cons:  He might slip into his “President Snow” character and go all post-Apocalyptic-Hunger-Games on us all.  I will not be volunteering as tribute.

Donald Rumsfeld:

Pros:  Bahahahahah, just kidding!

Cons:  All of them.  All the cons.

Donald Duck:  

Pros:  Assertive, but well meaning, Donald Duck would bring humility to the office.  He’s not perfect, but what he lacks in competency, he makes up for with tenacity.  (Kinda like Bush?)

Cons:  Quack… Sorry.. Quick tempered and not very articulate.  When met with even the most minor setbacks, this Donald is pretty quick to lose his cool; and if any chipmunks get loose in the White House, forget about it.   Also, he hardly ever wears pants, which might be a problem.  (Kinda like Clinton?)

Ronald McDONALD:

Pros:  Happy meals for everyone…. by law.  Bye-bye ObamaCare, hello McDonaldCare.

Cons: Would likely focus his attentions on legislation dedicated to the reduction of “hamburglaring” instead of more pressing issues… like minimum wage hikes for fast food employees.  Also, his running-mate would probably be Grimace and I don’t trust him.

So there you go!  There are other options out there!  Or you could just pick a legitimate candidate that hasn’t had their own reality show and you won’t end up with Honey Boo Boo as a Vice President.  Strange thought.  Pull your head out of your Donald, America.

*Poll was limited to members of my direct family.  Which is even worse.
**Paid for by The Committee To Elect Brett Allen

The recent news of the Grand Rapids Griffin’s logo change got me thinking about the origin of the hockey team’s mascot.  Where did the mascot come from?  Why the Griffin?  Grand Rapids isn’t exactly know for its thriving griffin population;  I’ve lived here for a number of years now and I’m pretty sure I’ve only seen one of these half eagle/half lion beasts in the wild.  The John Ball Park Zoo doesn’t even have any on display because they’re so rare.*  So in honor of the 20th season of the Grand Rapids Griffins, I decided to do some digging and uncover the truth behind the Griffin.  Here is what I found out:

In 1913, The Pantiland Hotel (not pronounced “Panty-Land”, that’s somewhere completely different) was constructed in downtown Grand Rapids, Michigan.  This lavish hotel was soon rated among the top ten hotels in America and drew visitors from all over the region, but it wasn’t just the beauty of the hotel that brought people in.  It was rumored that the building architects (Warren and Wetmore of NYC) had incorporated a secret vault somewhere within the structure, which housed the riches of some of the country’s most well-to-do families.  People from around the country would come to the hotel to weigh in with their speculation on where the treasures were hidden.**  As a symbolic gesture for would-be thieves, Charles Wetmore had a giant granite griffin sculpture erected on the roof of The Pantiland to overwatch the hotel (mythological griffins have always been regarded as protectors of treasure and wealth).

It is there that the great, granite griffin sat for the next 11 years; it’s sharp eyes ever watchful from high on its hotel perch.  But in 1924, everything changed.  America was now in its fifth year of Prohibition and the nation as a whole had long since become moody and irritable.  Desperate for libations of any kind, many people resorted to making their own alcoholic beverages, which would then be sold and served in local speakeasies.  One such speakeasy was located conveniently on the top floor of The Pantiland and all of their beers were brewed on the hotel rooftop which was not visible from the streets below (this is largely regarded as Grand Rapids first micro-brewery and set the city on its path to becoming “Beer City U.S.A.”).  The legend goes that the speakeasies master brewer, a man known only as The Hollander, had a habit of experimenting with ancient Gaelic brewing techniques and recipes from his home country of Ireland.  On one particular night, The Hollander was brewing something so fiercely robust, that the fumes from his concoction woke the giant stone beast.  As The Griffin rose from his mantel and spread his mighty wings, The Hollander stumbled backward into a finished vat of barrel aged stout.  The Griffin, startled by the commotion, took to the air and vanished into the night sky.  As for The Hollander, his tale was received by the masses as nothing more than the addled ramblings of a beer soaked drunkard, though no one could conclusively explain where the statue had disappeared too.

Since that fateful night, local legend and lore has built around the The Griffin.  On many occasions, Grand Rapids citizens have claimed sightings and some have even claimed that the great beast has saved their lives.  Most notably, The Griffin has protected this city from outside threats such as Chicago wolves, smelly ice hogs from Rockford, and the always clumsy Lake Erie Monsters who often summer at Grand Haven State Park.  It is often said that during full moons, The Griffin can be seen perched high atop the Amway Grand Plaza Hotel (originally The Pantiland Hotel) overwatching the city that is its greatest treasure.  It was also often said that on hot, sunny, summer afternoons, The Griffin would cool himself in the fountain at Rosa Parks Circle, but I think if this were true someone would have been able to confirm it.

To this day, The Griffin still guards our city’s greatest treasures and as of recently is rumored to have been hired by the Founders Brewing Company to spend the majority of his time in the gypsum mines under Grand Rapids.  He is obviously guarding next years batch of KBS and whatever other secret brews they have down there.  Rumor has it they are trying to recreate The Hollander’s brew that woke The Griffin in the first place; undoubtedly to create more griffin guards as they continue to expand.

*The John Ball Park Zoo was rumored to have had a griffin in the early 1980’s, but it was later discovered that some punk teenagers had just zip-tied a seagull to the back of a tabby cat and released it in the park.  The cat-gull was eventually caught and the animals separated, but the two remained close friends until the cat got hungry and ate the seagull.  

**The staff at the Amway Grand Plaza Hotel hates it when you go in and look for the treasure, so please don’t try it.***
***If you do try it, don’t tell them where you heard about it.

Quadrello di Bufala.  Fegolotto. Branzino.  Confused?  So was I.  Still am actually.  These were just a few items from a menu I could barely read, but it turned out they all translated remarkably the same: delicious.

Let me make one thing clear.  I am by no means a “fine diner”.  In fact, a few short years ago, if you’d have shown me a menu devoid of words such as “blooming onion”, “sampler platter” and “cowboy burger”, I’d have run for the hills (which is where I grew up).   For a long time, I didn’t trust a restaurant that served only modest portions.  Fortunately for me and my taste buds, I married a woman who had a healthy adoration for The Food Network and more specifically for Giada De Laurentiis.  I will admit that on more than a few occasions I have watched along with her; mostly when the recipes involved Italian bacon or pancetta, as Giada calls it (Pancetta is similar to American bacon except it uses more elaborate hand gestures).  So naturally, when the opportunity came up to visit my brother-in-law in Las Vegas, my wife jumped at the opportunity to make reservations at Giada’s restaurant in The Cromwell on the Las Vegas Strip.

The first thing you’ll notice upon arriving at Giada is that everyone smiles at you.  The staff that is.  Not the the other patrons, because that’d just be weird.  More than a few times, I found myself looking around and making accidental eye contact with waiters, waitresses, pepper-grinder guys*, and even chefs, and always getting a friendly smile in return.  If you’re anything like me, an unfortunate side effect of growing up in today’s society is that I’m immediately suspicious of anyone who makes unprompted kind gestures.   So you can imagine my befuddlement when a kindly chef beamed a grin at me as I headed back to my seat from the restroom.  He must have thought I had a nervous tick from the ferocity at which I checked to ensure my fly was up or that I didn’t have a hitchhiking swatch of toilet paper dragging from my shoe.

Our waiter later explained the happy nature of the staff as being the result of good management and an owner that cares.  As it turns out, Giada herself makes frequent visits to the restaurant to check up, tweak the menu and of course ensure no “blooming onions” or “cowboy burgers” have made their way on to the list of offerings.

In hindsight, I have a different theory about all the smiles.  I think the staff found joy in knowing that I was about to have one of the best meals of my life and everything I’d eat for a week after that was going to taste like garbage in comparison.  A little sadistic, you might think.  Maybe, but I have no regrets.

Now I’m not a food critic, so I’m not going to try to describe to you in detail the transcendent taste of the Spicy Italian Sausage Arancini nor the heavenly velvet texture of the Crab and Scallop Risotto. And I would never be able to do justice to the silky Chocolate Torte with a hazelnut crunch, so I won’t even try.  What I will tell you is that when I left, I understood.  And every stranger I passed for the rest of the evening got a great big beaming smile from me.  And I secretly hope it made them uncomfortable.

*The pepper-grinder guy must have some sore arms at the end of every day, because the thing is bigger than a baseball bat.  Serious.  You could take out some kneecaps with that thing.

**In the mid 1950’s, the mafia hitman Johnny “Mr. Pepper” DiSanto (no relation to Dr. Pepper) was notorious for dispatching his victims with a similar oversized pepper grinder.

Vegas Reviews: OMG! Kittens

Las Vegas. Sin City. Little Gomorrah. However you may know it, Vegas has always been a home for temptation. “What happens here, stays here” they say. But now there is this:  
It happens fast. You’re pacing swiftly across the casino floor at 7:13 am, your $12 Starbucks in hand. More than a little proud of yourself, you keep your eyes locked on the gritty green carpet in front of you as row upon row of glitzy slot machines dance by. An older woman dragging an oxygen tank briefly chokes on her cigarette and you glance up. That’s when you see it. It’s different from the other machines and that’s why you take notice. There are no scantily clad women or odd cartoon-like characters adorning the top of this machine, just the solo face of an adorable furball with the words “OMG! Kittens” underneath. Your gate falters and you come to a stop in front of its neon glow.  

What possible secret could these kittens hold that would warrant such an exclamation of ‘Oh My God’? 

Before you can answer yourself, you’ve taken a seat and put money in the machine. Rational thought is gone as you pray for five “Mr. Whiskers” in a row and those jackpot bells. But Mr. Whiskers never comes. Less lucrative kittens like “Bubbles” and “Fuzzball” whir mockingly down the screen, but never in the right order. You spin the kittens over and over, but the machine remains silent save for an occasional mechanical meow. Your money is gone. The once adorable face of Mr. Whiskers now stares down at you with malevolent eyes. You try to meet his gaze, but your shame doesn’t allow you too. Instead, you slink from the seat and find the quiet comfort of the gritty green carpet once again as you speed away. Damn you, Mr. Whiskers. Damn you to hell.  

Originally opened in 1837, as a fur trading station for pioneering frontiersman, The Trading Post of Croton, Michigan has stood the test of time.  Located on the banks of the pristine waters of Croton Pond, this cozy pizza parlor/ice cream parlor/liquor store/gas station/convenience shop/bait shop/post office/amateur dentistry, is a one stop shop for the residents of its quiet community.  In Summer months, The Trading Post becomes the life line for throngs of pond-going, partying pontooners that swarm to the Muskegon River region for boating, tubing and kayaking.  Despite its versatile appeal, The Trading Post’s number one draw remains their award winning pizzas (won “Best Pizza in Croton” in 1891).

The Trading Post opened before Croton was even Croton.  Originally called Muskegon Forks because of its position on the Muskegon River, the small village served as a home base for many French, German and Dutch fur trappers.  One such German trapper, Merik Von Schmidt, recognized the need for a centralized collection point for the many animal furs that were brought back to the village.  Von Schmidt would buy the animal furs from his fellow villagers and then sell them, with a handsome mark up, to larger markets in Grand Rapids.  Over time, Von Schmidt recognized an area of great waste that was present in the fur industry during those times.  While many larger animals such as deer and bear were used for food, the carcases of the smaller “junk animals” such as raccoons, beavers, opossums, and porcupines (the demand for porcupine pelts never really took off*), were often discarded for “tasting icky”.    In true entrepreneurial spirit, Von Schmidt began experimenting with different methods of serving these animals to make them palatable to the common tongue.  His first attempt involved grinding the full carcases into a fine paste and then pumping the paste into sausage cases.  This is often regarded as the creation of the first hotdog and many of the large hotdog producers still use an extremely similar recipe today.  The “Critter Paste Pockets”, as Von Schmidt called them, did not catch on, probably due to the name.  After numerous other failed attempts, Von Schmidt finally found a winning recipe with the help of a local Italian fur trapper who showed him how to season the various meats to be used as topping on traditional Italian pizzas.  The pizzas, with unique toppings such as Raccoon Sausage, Beaver Bits, Porcupine Pepperoni, and Skunk Strips, were a great success and The Trading Post has been dishing up delicious pies ever since.

Of course today the topping menu at The Trading Post has shifted to more traditional fare, but the pizza making concepts that made Von Schmidt a success are still present today.  Every Trading Post pizza is topped with a sweet tomato sauce and then heaped with a hefty helping of the toppings of your choice and so much cheese you’ll be stopped up for a week.  The pizza’s are then cooked perfectly to a delicious golden brown and served with plenty of extra napkins.  The next time you’re in the Newaygo County area, which means you are probably lost, you should make it a mission to stop and pick up a delicious pie from The Trading Post.  I guarantee you will not be disappointed.**

*The demand for porcupine pelts took off briefly in the early 1870’s when the U.S. Army experimented with “porcupine uniforms”, specifically for close quarters combat.  The project was quickly scrapped when irresponsible privates kept hugging each other as practical jokes.
**Hogwash Writing cannot guarantee you will not be disappointed.